“And get my new company car dinged? No way.”
Dad scoffed. “It’s a Kia, not a Mercedes.”
“You’re jealous.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re jealous because I finally have my own career, and my own interests.”
“I just think it’s bad timing with… everything that’s going on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dad made an exasperated noise. “I mean we have a daughter in a coma, who’s about to have a baby!”
“And I suppose you expect me to take care of Marigold, and her baby.”
“I expect us to do it together, as a family.”
“Oh, sure—while you’re on the road all week, eating on your expense account and going to titty bars, I’ll be saddled at home with two invalids in diapers!”
Technically true, but ouch.
My mother burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Here’s where you have to read between the lines—she’s not saying she didn’t mean it, just that she shouldn’t have said it.
“It’s okay,” my dad soothed. “We’re all stressed to the max.”
But I totally understand where she’s coming from. Mom wasn’t that into me when I was able-bodied and -minded. What the heck is she supposed to do with me now? And my unplanned child? Deep down I think she went along with Sid’s encouragement to keep the baby because she thought by now I’d be awake and out of her life again.
“What if she never gets better?” my mom sobbed. “What if this is the only life Marigold is going to have?”
“Then we have to accept it,” Dad said, ever reasonable.
And so do I. The realization hit me like a brick wall.
I’ve been lying here thinking my situation is temporary, that it’s just a matter of time before I open my eyes and swing my legs over the edge of the bed and walk out of here. I’ve been letting Dr. Jarvis pull me along, mistaking his egotism for optimism, when maybe I’m simply never going to wake up. Maybe this is how I’m going to live out the rest of my life—in my own head, listening, and being a well that other people pour themselves into. It’s a function. It’s not what I had in mind when I graduated college, but neither was being a carpet warehouse wrangler. Maybe this is God’s plan for me. We don’t all get to be bright and shiny. And conscious.
Twelve thousand seven hundred thirteen… Twelve thousand seven hundred fourteen…
November 16, Wednesday
FOURTEEN THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR… Fourteen thousand three hundred thirty-five—
The door opened quietly. I might not have heard it except for the fact that it’s early and the hospital is only beginning to rouse.
“Good morning, Coma Girl.”
It’s the volunteer who reads to us often and exploits us occasionally. But at this point, what’s another photo of me in my bed? I might be wearing a different headscarf and from what the nurses say, my baby bump might be showing, but otherwise, I’m a still life arrangement.
“It’s chilly this morning,” he said, blowing—I assume into his hands to warm them.
I believe I’ve forgotten cold and hot. When I think of the words, instead of sensations, colors pop into my head—pale blue for coolness, flame red for warmth. And I can conjure up images of ice and fire, but I can’t recall what they feel like on my skin.
Audrey Parks had escaped the vegetable patch only to come back and torment the rest of us with descriptions of how horrible it was to try to adjust to living again. I suspect after a couple of years of nonbeing, a person would have to relearn everything about interacting with the world. No wonder she was having a rough go of it.
“I marked this Dickinson poem to read some time ago,” he said, “but the timing never felt right. But today for some reason, it feels right, and I hope you like it.”
Even the pages of the book sounded stiff as he turned them.
“It’s called ‘I Have No Life But This,’ and I think it applies to everyone on this earth.”
He paused to good effect, then began.
“I have no life but this, to lead it here, nor any death, but lest dispelled from there. Nor tie to earths to come, nor action new, except through this extent, the realm of you.”
It’s as if he’s looking straight into my heart, as if he knows I’m struggling to accept this life. Part of the resistance is knowing what a burden I will be on my family, and especially my mother. But part of the resistance is plain old brattiness and wanting what I had before.
And even though the philosophy of the poem seems especially poignant for someone like me and Karen Suh, our volunteer is correct that it applies to everyone in all walks of life. As hard as it might be to understand, even a life of privilege comes with its challenges. Look at Joanna.
The door opened again, and I could tell the volunteer was startled by the way he jumped to his feet.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said. “The security guard told me I could come in? I’m looking for Marigold Kemp?”
My mind is racing to identify the voice—the woman sounds young, and she’s an ‘uptalker’—she ends every sentence as if she’s asking a question.
“You’re in the right place,” the man said smoothly. “That’s Marigold, with the flowered headscarf.”
“Oh? Are you a relative?”
“A friend.”
She sighed, then I heard the slide of papers, possibly a book. “I teach an evening writing class at Kennesaw State?”
Suddenly I recognized the voice, and I knew what was coming.
“I’ve had a manuscript of Marigold’s for months? I didn’t know what had happened, she just stopped coming to class? And I didn’t have a mailing address for her? Then one day, I heard her name on television, and there she was, in a coma? Anyway, I brought the manuscript?”
Holy God—what the disorganized uptalker left out is the supremely pertinent fact that it was a therapy writing class. The manuscript is basically one long bitchfest about my messed up family. And because it was supposed to be confidential, I even used their real names.
“Leave it,” the volunteer said. “I’ll make sure it gets to the right person.”
“Thanks? You’re a lifesaver?”
This can’t be happening. A tell-all on Coma Girl’s life story was just handed to the man who has TMZ on speed-dial.
Sure enough, after the woman left, I heard the zip-snap of a backpack being opened. “I’ll take this for safekeeping,” he said, almost to himself.
After a quick goodbye, he left whistling under his breath.
When I started recalling all the horrible things I’d written about everyone in my family, my mind began to spin. Because we had been encouraged to purge our demons in the assignment, I had bled my spleen on those pages with bitterness and scorn—even cruelty. If—when—it got out, my family would definitely cut ties with me. And worse, the manuscript might be the only thing of me my child would ever know.
When panic threatened to close in, I focused on the funereal music in my ear.
Fourteen thousand three hundred thirty-six… Fourteen thousand three hundred thirty-seven…
November 17, Thursday
SEVENTEEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED EIGHT… Seventeen thousand five hundred nine—
The door opened and from the banging and clanging, it was clear something was being moved inside.
“Got a new roommate for you,” a male voice announced—Nico, I think.
“A fresh veggie for the patch,” another voice snarked—Gabriel, for sure.
They rolled the bed inside and positioned it between mine and Karen’s. Back is the wheezy rattle of a ventilator, like Jill had required. Whoever the patient is, she’s behind the eight ball—and that says a lot coming from someone whose eyes don’t dilate.
“Oops, dropped my hat,” Gabriel said. “Fell out of my back pocket.”
“The hat you stole from a comatose patient,” Nico reminded hi
m.
I believe the word you’re looking for is “ghoul.”
“Do you see anybody asking for it? No. CG over there don’t even know it’s gone.”
Uh, yes, I do. You’re not only a grave-robber, but you stole the only connection I had to Duncan.
“At least leave it in your locker,” Nico bit out.
“It’s my lucky hat. I get lucky with Donna every time I wear it.”
“Uh-huh. What happened to tapping Gina’s honeypot?”
“Man, she lured me over to her place, then put me on ice. I’m done with that.”
Nico laughed. “Remind me to congratulate Gina when I see her.”
The door opened. “Did I hear my name?” Gina asked.
“Was bragging on you, baby,” Gabriel said, his voice undulating like a song.
“It’s ‘Gina’ at work,” she reminded him.
“Got you a new cabbage for the garden,” Gabriel said.
“What is the patient’s name?” she asked crisply.
“Shondra Taylor,” Nico responded. “Twenty-one, brain and spinal cord injury.”
Gina made a mournful sound. “So young. What happened?”
“Playing a virtual reality mobile app with friends, and walked off a bridge.”
Ugh—how is that even possible?
“The second patient this month, same thing,” Gina said. “Luckily, the other one is only in a body cast. Who’s her doctor?”
“Tyson.”
“Okay, thanks, guys. I’ll take it from here.”
“See you, Gina.”
“Later, Nico.”
“Hey, Gina,” Gabriel said, lowering his voice. “I was hoping we could have a date night in soon… you know, when the coast is clear, so to speak.”
“I can’t, Gabriel. I just signed up for double shifts through the end of the month. I need the extra money to give my boy a good Christmas.”
“Okay, gorgeous, so maybe after that?”
“Maybe.”
He made a clicking “gotcha” sound with his cheek and I’ll bet a hundred dollars he had the finger-gun action going, too.
Yuck. I wish I could warn Gina. And get Duncan’s hat back. And talk to Detective Terry. And let Karen Suh’s ex-husband know she’s still here. And retrieve that manuscript.
“Welcome, Shondra, to the long-term care ward,” Gina murmured. “Better get comfortable, sweetie. No one in here is going home any time soon.”
Seventeen thousand five hundred ten… Seventeen thousand five hundred eleven…
November 18, Friday
TWENTY THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED EIGHTEEN… Twenty thousand four hundred nineteen—
The door opened and two sets of feet ran in—one with telltale flapping sandals. The door closed just as quickly.
“Did he see us?” Winnie whispered.
“Shh, I think I hear him coming,” Faridee murmured. “Lean against the door.”
The doorknob jiggled.
“Ladies,” Teddy said from the other side. “I saw you. Open up.”
They took their sweet time, but they finally opened the door.
Teddy came stomping in. “I saw you sneaking by the nurses’ station holding magazines over your faces. Next time, make sure they’re right side up.”
“We wouldn’t have to sneak in if you’d let me in to see my own niece,” Winnie said in a huff.
“You’re firebugs!” Teddy said. “And you’re lucky I didn’t call the police. Both of you, turn around, hands up.”
“You’re arresting us?” Faridee exclaimed.
“No. I’m patting you down for candles.”
“But you’re a man… and we’re women,” Winnie protested weakly.
“Unless you got a real roman candle under that tent, you’re safe,” Teddy said dryly. “Okay, you’re good. But I’m watching you two.”
The door opened and he marched out.
Faridee snorted her indignance. “Well, I never.”
“I did once,” Winnie said with a conspiratorial giggle. “Actually, twice.”
The women tee-heed, totally entertaining themselves. If Coma Girl makes it to Broadway, these two characters have to be written in as some kind of fairy coma-mothers.
“Hello, Sweetheart,” Winnie called. “I’m here with Faridee.”
Yes, I heard the commotion for the last ten minutes or so. Along with everyone else on the floor. You probably traumatized poor Shondra.
“Actually, we came to visit because Faridee has a wonderful idea for a business.”
Okay, where is this going?
“You’ve heard of Wind Talkers,” Winnie said
“And Small Talkers,” Faridee added.
“And Trash Talkers,” Winnie ended with a flourish.
Okay, I’ve heard of maybe one of those.
“Now meet Coma Talkers!” they said in unison.
Oh, brother.
“Our idea is to go around to coma wards and transcribe what patients are thinking but can’t communicate to their friends and family.”
That will be a small disaster, but hilarious.
“But we need to practice more on you, Marigold,” Faridee said.
“So when you wake up,” Winnie said, “you can tell us how close we are.”
Ah, the fatal flaw.
“Faridee is going to snort some vanilla Stevia that worked so well that one time.”
“It gave me such clarity.”
A reminder that the Stevia-snorting session led to Winnie accusing Jack Terry of fathering my child.
“Here, I’ll empty the packets onto this bed tray, Faridee. Why don’t you open that straw—no one in here is going to use it—and snort it that way?”
“Much easier,” Faridee agreed.
Uh, ladies…
“Oh! You should try this, Winnie. It’s a rush.”
“Don’t mind if I do… Whew-we!”
I heard Teddy’s whistle just as he opened the door. I’m sure Winnie and Faridee looked like two caftaned deer in headlights. With white powder on their noses.
“What’s going on in here?” he thundered.
“We’re snorting Stevia,” Winnie said.
“Out!”
“But—”
“Out, out, out!”
He hustled them out and I could hear their raised voices as they rolled down the hall.
That scene is definitely going into the musical.
Where was I? Oh, yeah—Twenty thousand four hundred twenty… Twenty thousand four hundred twenty-one…
November 19, Saturday
TWENTY-ONE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE… Twenty-one thousand one hundred thirty…
I’m slowing down. Or maybe I’m just tired. Maybe the baby is restless… I wish I could feel something.
When the door opened, I assumed it’s another visitor for Shondra. Her young friends were coming in tearful droves, standing around her bed praying and singing and playing video games while narrating them to her. It’s unimaginable that she’d landed in that bed because she simply wasn’t paying attention.
Although, isn’t that what happened to me? Because someone wasn’t paying attention.
I’m waiting for word that the manuscript I’d written has been leaked to the highest bidder, but so far, nothing. If it happens and my family is too furious to talk to me, Roberta will burn a trail over here to clue me in.
“Hi, Marigold.”
My ears tell my brain to go haywire before recognition kicks in. Duncan.
“I’ve been out of the country for a while, working. I had to come, though, and see for myself… ”
How emaciated I look? Bald and pale and slack?
“You’re really pregnant.”
“She really is.”
Roberta had slipped in.
“Hi, Roberta.”
“Hi, Duncan. I guess you’re back in town for the wedding.”
“Right,” he said. “But I wanted to see Marigold. How is she?”
“Still comatose. And pr
egnant.”
“I just heard about that. Who’s the father?”
I’m holding my mental breath.
“I think it’s some guy she hooked up with on Tinder.”
Wow, that hurt more than I thought it would… but it’s for best, right?
“Oh,” Duncan said.
Was that relief in his voice?
“So he’s not in the picture?”
“No.”
“Do I have something on my face?”
“I just realized what a tiny head you have.”
“What?”
“Never mind. How are plans for the wedding? A week from today, right?”
“Right. Everything’s… perfect. Trina’s great at pretty much everything. Well, you met her.”
“Yes. She invited me to the wedding. She seems great.”
“She is great.”
Great.
“You know,” Roberta said casually, “I always thought you and Marigold would end up married someday.”
“Marigold and I were always good friends. You know, dating messes up friendships.”
“Yeah… or makes them better.”
“Or worse,” he said.
“Or better,” Roberta said.
“Well, I have Trina now, and… all that. So, what’s Marigold’s prognosis?”
He sounded concerned… or maybe he thought he needed to, for appearances.
“No one really knows.”
“They don’t know if she’s going to wake up?”
“No. She had a second surgery about three weeks ago, and the doctors were hopeful it would make a difference, but so far, it hasn’t.”
“Who’s going to take care of her?”
“Her family, I guess.”
“And the baby?”
“Same.”
“Marigold isn’t that close to her family.”
“Yeah, they’re all a little hinky, but I suppose when something like this happens, you band together.”
“I guess you’re right. But what if she doesn’t wake up?”
“That’s possible. That woman over next to the wall has been in a coma for over two years.”
“Two years?”
“And people can live for decades in a coma.”
“Do they know if Marigold can hear us?”
“There have been times when she responded to commands to move her fingers, but not for weeks now.”
“So she might be able to hear me right now, but not respond?”
Coma Girl: Part 5 (Kindle Single) Page 4